


Sock It to Me, Dear

by lofty



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Arguing, Crack, Crushes, Domesticity Gone Wrong, Gen, Humor, Improbable Sleeping Positions, Lucius begs of you, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Not!Married, PSA: don't wear them to bed, Post-Canon, Raven's Unholy (holey) Socks, Socks, This Is STUPID, as if, yes this is a story about raven being a manchild about his socks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lofty/pseuds/lofty
Summary: Lucius and Raven argue about smelly socks, sleeping habits, and Raven's shitty wife kink: the saga no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I lied; someone asked for this, but I took it too far. To the person who thought they were giving me a joke request for a fic about Raven's feet: I was not joking.
> 
> But this fic is a complete joke, and I can't tell if I'm sorry or not.

Most people wake up curled on their sides in bed. Some, flopped over on their stomachs, or their back, or even sprawling their limbs out like they’re dreaming of climbing mountains. Or maybe, they break free of slumber’s gentle grip with a twist and a stretch, then fill their eyes with daylight. 

Sharing a bed is another matter altogether. In order to cut on costs on nights too chilly to camp out in, they found it sensible to buy only one bed. The pragmatism of the decision excused them from much of the shyness that would have transpired from the idea of bed-sharing, but the quiet spirit of it still lurked in their hearts unexpressed. The luxury of body heat cannot be shrugged off as unpleasurable, but that doesn’t grant immunity from the tortures of bed-hoggers or chronic snorers. Lucius isn’t dealing with either of those problems, thankfully. But sometimes, your bed partner has a tendency to accidentally wake you up with his jostling and squirming.

Normally, if you’re sharing a bed and you wake up in the morning, you wake up to your partner’s sleepy face. Or the back of their head. Or even their neck, or their back. Why is this normal, one might usually never ask? Because that’s where the pillow goes. Pillows are meant for heads. So when Lucius is nudged at the cheek from his sleep, he scrunches his face and shifts, wondering two things in order: what could Raven want? And: why does his breath smell so rancid?

Yes! That would be normal, too! More normal than what Lucius discovers upon dragging his eyelids open.

“Mmm… What is it?”

It’s the full glory of Raven’s feet, sock-clad toes bending the dimensions of his face and threatening to snuff his sense of smell into oblivion. He might almost cry, it’s so bad.

How does it keep coming to this...? Why can’t Raven orient himself normally? When did he start _doing_ this?

It’s a matter of self-defense when he kicks him under the covers. Kneejerk, really.

“Erhg!”

Raven seizes the oncoming calves. Another ingrained measure of self-defense that kicked in, really. He also shoves Lucius even harder with his smelly feet, sliding the bottom of it across his nose and mouth, which stirs a muffled yelp from the poor monk as he tries with all that he is to pry the offensive limb from his weak spots. It does not relent. 

Cloaked in the darkness of sheets, Raven continues to register this as a nighttime ambush in his half-asleep stupor. Sprung from a second wave of reflexes, he jabs at his unseen attacker with another yowl. Lucius moans against the ball of his foot in pain, which only crams into him harder. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if he could suffocate like this, or at the very least lose consciousness. When he tries to form his mouth around his partner’s name, it merely emerges as feeble, inarticulate garble.

Raven begins to advance on his legs, and… and his face! But, fearing for his life (and the sanctity of his nostrils), Lucius flips him over with a mighty, suppressed battle cry. 

They roll over with a thud against the floorboards, stripping the bed of its blankets and mummifying Lucius’s assailant. He only gets one sublime gasp of fresh air before the other cursed foot is right back at his face again — but for a sound kick instead.

“Ah!!” He covers the tingling rush of pain blossoming at his nose while Raven writhes beneath him, hollering in his cocoon and acting like a man-sized worm. 

“Lucius? Lucius, was that you?! You craven dastard; let GO of me!!”

At this point, Lucius finds it best to dismount the addlepated mess of a mercenary and allow him the insight as to what his “dire” circumstances truly call for. He bolts upright and flings the covers off in an explosion of white that drifts harmlessly over the short bedpost like falling snow, revealing stark, raving distress, a man ready to pounce on their would-be raiders. However, only Lucius greets his bleary vision, on his knees and clutching his face in abated agony. He shuffles closer and perches his hand on his shoulder, glancing for the assailants first, his blade second. 

“Who did this? Where are they now?” he growls.

Lucius opens his eyes and gives him the most deadpan shade he’s seen from the light-loving monk in eons. Then, he closes them and proceeds to talk behind cupped palms. “We are not under attack. I’m afraid the one who did this to me is you, my lord.”

“Oh.” He takes his hand back. “I did? Why?”

“Because you shoved your foot in my face.”

“Come again?”

“You shoved. Your unwashed sock-clad foot. Into my face.” Blood starts to drip between the crevices of his fingers. “By St. Elimine’s hallowed name, may I ask why you make a habit of sleeping upside-down...?” 

Raven decides the best way to apologize is to go procure him a cloth of some kind to soak up the flow before he splatters his tidy under-robe. “How should I know?” he mumbles as he stands. “That’s not how I fell asleep.”

“How _does_ someone unintentionally flip themselves over, a hundred and eighty degrees, without even waking up once? ...Moreover, how do _I_ not wake up?”

Raven shrugs, back turned to him. He retrieves a spare strip of linen wordlessly and returns to kneel by his companion’s side. Lucius accepts the rag offered to him and quashes the dark ruby rivulets at the source, but it gives his bright voice a more nasally edge. “This is the third time this week. Don’t you think this is becoming a problem?”

“You know, maybe if you didn’t kick me like that, I wouldn’t think I was being attacked in the first place,” retorts Raven behind the throbbing in his eye socket.

His mouth falls open as his eyebrows cinch in outrage at the audacity of the man who just about choked him with stench alone this morning. “Excuse me! Lord Raymond, I beg your pardon, but if we are to share a bed, I would prefer not to wake up to your pungent socks every morning!”

Embarrassed, Raven gets on the defensive. “Hey, I don’t have control over how I wake up in the morning! Just like you don’t have control over _drooling on me_ or _talking in your sleep_.”

Now it’s Lucius’s turn to flush, and his eyes flash at Raven indignantly as he pushes the napkin harder into his bludgeoned nose. “T-Take that back!”

He smirks. “Maybe that’s why I subconsciously flip upside-down. Not everyone wants a drool demon sleeping next to them, Lucius.”

“If it was such a problem, then why sleep next to me at all, then?” 

Raven’s face plummets to a scowl. “How is that even a question?” He narrows his eyes knowingly. “...Oh, I see. You’re acting up again.” He rises to his feet. “Maybe we should have this discussion when you’re ready to do it like an adult.”

Lucius rises with him. “Am I not permitted to be even a little upset?”

“And anyway, I don’t know what arguing about it will accomplish.” He starts making his way across their room, folding his arms behind him in a stretch. “I can’t change the way I wake up. Can you?”

Lucius trails after him, trying not to pout with little success. “Be that as it may, I have difficulty believing this is an accident. But I will concede. There are a number of things you _can_ change, though. If I might respectfully add. Like changing your socks before you go to bed. Or better yet, not wearing any at all. Your feet might smell less if you would let them breathe for a change! Speaking of which, when was the last time you washed them?”

“Nag nag nag! All you do is nag. Might as well marry me and get it over with,” quips Raven, enjoying his joke a little too much for Lucius’s tastes. “Why don’t you wash my socks after you get dressed and make some breakfast?”

Lucius tightens his lips and treads the tides of his exasperation before he is capable of a single riposte. He blows out all the breath he held in one puff, spurring the napkin to tremble.

“Oh, not this again! Perhaps I will marry you just to put an end to this particular strain of remarks you love to crack at me! How about that!”

Raven snorts, twisting his face into gross amusement he can’t control. “Fighting fire with fire, eh? You’re full of surprises, _dear_. Never thought you’d finally let up. I hope your proposal doesn’t disappoint, either.”

He loves this, doesn’t he? Lucius tries not to gag on his smug satisfaction, but he contorts his face like he can’t quite swallow a sour cherry. “...I was not serious, by the way!”

“...I know. It’s not like we can, anyway.”

Their heated spat flickers out and settles into a cold, somber pause that speaks volumes about the feelings they can’t touch upon. Lucius pulls the cloth away from his face to examine its sordid red with a twitch of his lips and fits a drier corner to his nose instead. The dull chill of familiar distance becomes unbearable, so he propels their exchange forward by veering their subject backwards.

“...Would you _like_ me to fix you breakfast today? I will have to go to market, first, but...”

“...Sure. But let’s hope this time you understand the difference between over-hard and crispy-burnt.”

“Hey!”


	2. Chapter 2

Night after accursed night, and morning after accursed morning, Lucius wakes to the same accursed part of Raven.

Slinging the same quarrel rounds at each other becomes the bugle cry of their morning routine. If Lucius wakes before Raven (most often the case), Raven would be dropped into the middle of a verbal warzone. So much for the sweet, patient monk everyone lauds him to be! They just never bore witness to the testier side of Lucius, the one that is squeezed out when tried enough by his exasperating partner. He pleads him to change his ways, or at least his socks, but that seems to end in Raven teasing him about washing his clothes for him, to which Lucius rebukes his childishness and insists he is a grown man who can wash his own clothes.

“Look at this display of flagrant insubordination. From you?”

“Must I remind you? I am your subordinate no longer!”

“Ha! You only say that when it’s convenient for you. But you’re doing a fine job at showing me you’re not always so meek and submissive.”

“Who in their right mind would be, dealing with your obstinacy?! Ah, but forgive me. My patience is a bit frayed. I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph. Yeah, I can take a hint. But like I said: it’s out of my control.”

“Will you at least wear clean socks to bed?”

“If it will make you stop complaining so much, fine. But in order to do that, I need some clean socks.”

“...What did I just _say?_ ”

They would always entangle themselves into spats of this nature, but over the past week or two, their quarrels have come to dominate, particularly in the mornings and shortly before bed. Otherwise, they lead their lives normally for the most part.

As traveling mercenaries, the pair does not follow the same rhythms step-by-step. Sometimes, while Raven is out accomplishing one task, Lucius would be off by himself attending another matter altogether. In service to St. Elimine as well as his former liege, he’ll set about helping the needy and downtrodden if they should remain in any settlement for longer than a passing day or two. Therefore, he really has two jobs, and never expects payment for acts of charity.

...Perhaps he has three jobs, he muses to himself as he tirelessly slips his needles through thread perched on the narrow window seat, mourning the dying light of a winter’s evening with a shiver. Looking after Raven is a full-time job, but one he commits to as dutifully as any other. House Cornwell’s dispossessed heir had mellowed out after the war. He causes him profusely less stress as a result. Why this man can be so stubbornly ridiculous about the most mundane of problems, Lucius can’t determine, but it’s much better than trying to rein him in from slaughtering poor Hector in a fit of misguided revenge. He doesn’t follow him out of a sense of duty anymore, but he still cannot help but fuss over him like old times.

The fidget of a key boring into the lock heralds Raven’s entry into their spartan quarters they’ve dwelled in the past few nights. “Brr. Thin walls. No wonder boarding was so cheap here,” he grumbles.

“Welcome back,” greets Lucius with a fine smile.

And Raven cuts right to some fussing of his own. “Aren’t you cold over there? Put on another layer. Or why don’t you just grab the blanket off the bed and throw it over your shoulders? I won’t care.”

“You’re right. Sorry; I was just so focused on my task that I...” 

“Well, you’re going to freeze if you don’t do something about it,” he admonishes with a shut of the door behind him. With a second round of scrutiny, he adds, “What exactly are you doing over there?”

“I’m repairing your socks. Knitting you new ones, too.”

“Oh?” He directs a particular smirk at him. “It’s a good look on you.”

The monk’s face crumples in suspicious disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He holds the unfinished project up as though flaunting it, a confidence that could not match the sad, unidentifiable shape of Lucius’s creation. “I’m not very good at it, by the way,” he gloats.

Raven frowns, but picks up the corner of his lip again as he adds, “With practice, I’m sure you’ll improve. But for now, knit to your heart’s content. In time, I might even wear them.”

“They’re not _that_ bad,” protests Lucius, suddenly willing to defend his work. ”And besides!” He throws his hand into the pile of socks he amassed from Raven’s belongings to unearth a scrap of worn fabric that resembled skimpy, woolen underwear from hell more than it did a sock anymore. “Anything I do to… to _this_ would be an improvement! Though I don’t think I possess the skill to make it whole again. Does anybody?”

“For goodness sake, Lucius; put that away!" he cries in quick-stabbing repulsion and shame. "Why are you doing this, anyway? To spite me?”

“Well, I went through your socks to finally bless these poor soles with the washing they deserve, and upon my horror, what did I find? Holes, my lord!” He plucks another garment from his pile to show him its gnarly disfigurements. “In the heel, in the toes, at the sides, a combination of two or three places, and heaven forbid four… These are hardly old enough to warrant it! And they are pilled!” He shakes another sock at him. “Pilled, everywhere! It’s making my skin crawl. Now, I have nothing against worn socks, mind you.” He lifted his leg to reveal a single tear nibbled into the fabric at the ball of one foot before letting it thud back down against the alcove. “We all must make do. But have you no limits?”

“You are hereby forbidden from rummaging through my… my dirty laundry,” grinds Raven with a tinge of heat turned up on his cheeks. “Ever again. If this is how you’re going to behave. I was going to take care of that myself, you know.”

Lucius ejects a puff of breath in lieu of the incredulous laughter that threatened to burst out. “And when!”

“Just shut up, Lucius.” He yanks the afghan off the foot of the bed and hurls it at his partner unceremoniously en route to the far side of the room, to the candles he intends to light. Although he brought his arms up to brace for the soft onslaught of fabric, it swallowed his face, his work, and his muffled protest. With his back turned, Raven adds, “As if I ever learned to knit.”

“I have seen you thread needle before, my lord,” huffs Lucius once he slid the offending blanket off his face, leaving a towheaded mess in its wake.

“Yeah, to sew quick repairs. Sutures, even. It’s not a bad skill for a mercenary to have. But I have never touched a pair of knitting needles. Maybe it suits you better.”

“Would you like me to teach you?” he invites with a bright streak of playful hope coloring his tone and burying the resentment at another one of his new favorite 'bride' wisecracks. “I learned some tips from an old widow I had been helping earlier who was eager to show me.”

Wanting to hold his ground, his pride compels him to refuse, even when the passing fancy of Lucius and him sitting close together at his cramped perch by the windowsill, his voice soft and encouraging by his ears and their hands touching, has the exhilarating power to set his heart alight. How silly of him to accept, and how hopelessly hopeful his basic ulterior motives in doing so would be. He probably couldn’t rightly handle it for too long lest it burns the wings off his heart when he knows it can’t be fulfilled. 

“I’ll pass. I was about to head back down again, anyway.” He blows on his splint until the fire disappears into a wisp of smoke. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

“No. I’m not picky, either,” replies Lucius as he untangles his sockwork from Raven's assault and gets himself resettled at his corner with the addition of the blanket’s cozy embrace. “I will have whatever you have, unless it’s meat.”

“Fine. I’ll bring it up for you.” He spares one parting glance to his companion, who reciprocates it with a delicate one of his own. Something about him curled up there in the blanket he provided him, busying his needles — for his sake, even if he made a show of not appreciating it — in an intimate space they claimed as their own, lovely hair in bedraggled disarray as he returns his focus to his project, taps into a source of warmth that floods into his core. 

“In the meantime, I will be right here. Stay safe, my lord!”

He may have lost most of his family, but Lucius kindles a strong sense of it in moments like these. He bundles it within him as he departs, allows it to become the inspiration for his blood to flow and his muscles to carry him. If only…

No. Thinking of it would only temper the upsurge of adoration and leave him awash in its unpleasantness. It wouldn’t matter if his personal feelings broke against the cold wall of unrequited longing if his devoted companionship alone still imbues him with warm purpose.


End file.
